


take it as a compliment, think about the consequence

by piagnucolare



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Bottom Quentin Beck, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drunk Sex, Humiliation, Intern Peter Parker, M/M, Manipulative Quentin Beck, Mouth Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, not beta’d but grammarly and the loml did their best, quentin: fire up the penis flattener, tony: quentin meet my intern peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24551320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piagnucolare/pseuds/piagnucolare
Summary: Company parties have always been the bane of Quentin’s existence.(Peter Parker is Tony Stark’s sweet little intern who just wants attention. Quentin’s more than happy to give it to him.)
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 115





	take it as a compliment, think about the consequence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pissticide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissticide/gifts).



> through my blood sweat and tears..... i present...... bottom beck
> 
> this is a gift for spencer who’s a total sweetheart !! sorry it took me so long to write it 
> 
> warnings for drunk, underage sex, choking, slapping, spitting, no kink negotiation, etc........ heavy stuff
> 
> title from “gorgeous” by miss taylor swift

Company parties have always been the bane of Quentin’s existence. 

He already spends a hellish forty hours of his week in Stark Tower, so he doesn’t really need to make it a hellish forty-five. An office party is just more of his life wasted, doing nothing worthwhile, in exchange for some measly refreshments. He’d expected a somewhat weak turnout, since only a handful of people are actually _required_ to attend, like him. But, apparently, most people are easily bribed by the promise of an open bar and free hors d’oeuvres. He bets that none of these losers have ever even been _invited_ to a party, let alone gone to one. 

The social scene at the party is a bit lackluster, to say the least. It’s the same boring people as always, except now they’re all annoyingly tipsy and making godawful attempts at conversation. Why anyone would ever get drunk at a _company party_ is beyond him. If he could fire them for some sort of misconduct, he would.

Whatever. He’ll just stand in the corner with his half-empty gin and tonic and pray that no one comes up to him. If anyone does end up trying to talk to him, he’s not responsible for his actions. He doesn’t feel like playing nice with his fellow lab technicians, not right now, not when he can barely hear himself think over the throwback music the DJ insists on playing at maximum volume. 

Then again, it’s not like anyone’s paying attention to him— why would they, when there are much more interesting people at the party. Even with the pounding music, he can hear Tony Stark from across the room, boasting about some new invention, probably. Every comment he makes apparently warrants uproarious laughter from his dedicated group of followers. 

Quentin hides his scowl in his drink.

He’s starting to fucking hate his job.

Someone inevitably decides to talk to him, despite the way he’s white-knuckling his glass and seething with annoyance. He doesn’t remember her name— just another employee that won’t get recognized for the blood, sweat, and tears she sheds to keep Tony Stark’s ship of dreams afloat. 

“Hey Quentin,” she says, almost hesitantly, fiddling with the cup in her hands. Good. Then she’s aware that she shouldn’t be talking to him, that he doesn’t want to talk right now. He can play nice when he absolutely has to, but everybody in their department knows he’s got a bit of a mean streak. Especially in the past few months.

“Can I help you?” It’s a rhetorical question, rude even, but he doesn’t care. He’ll probably never see her again, considering how fast employees come and go.

She flinches a little when he stares her down, but doesn’t go away, seemingly determined to say whatever it is she needs to say. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. About your project. It sucks that he did that.”

And just like that, Quentin is _livid_. ‘Sucks’ is the understatement of the fucking century. Tony Stark could have tortured and killed his entire family, and that still wouldn’t compare to the B.A.R.F. fiasco— stealing his invention and making it into a fucking joke in front of all those stupid college kids. He should’ve fucking quit on the spot, but here he is, standing alone in a corner at the party for _his_ invention. Completely ignored, while Tony Stark basks in all of the adoration that should’ve been directed at Quentin. 

Tony, who probably invited him here just to rub everything in his face. He stole his life’s work, chewed it up and spat it out, and now he’s forcing Quentin to sit through the torture of an office party.

The woman keeps talking, but he stops listening, just giving her curt nods when it seems appropriate, gritting his teeth so hard he thinks they might crack. She starts talking about her job— I.T., for fuck’s sake— and he considers jumping out the window, putting himself out of his misery once and for all.

He checks his watch— only an hour left, and then he can finally go home. God, he wishes that she’d leave him alone, that something awful and terrible would happen to him just so he doesn’t have to listen to her talk about computer maintenance.

Apparently, some higher power is feeling incredibly generous, because someone does intervene in their one-sided conversation. 

It’s just the last person he wants to see.

“Excuse me, hate to break up this little pity party you two are having, but I need to talk to the Employee of the Month. Very important, need-to-know basis kind of stuff— thanks, sweetheart.” 

The woman nods quickly, flashing him one last pitying look before wandering off and joining another group of pencil pushers. 

Tony grins at him, his eyes shining from behind his stupid fucking glasses. He’s left his posse behind, apparently deciding that torturing Quentin is much more interesting than listening to people sing his praises. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

It takes every single ounce of his self-control to not sucker-punch Tony in his smug fucking face. He settles for an eye-roll, which has considerably lower chances of getting him fired. “No, I’m not mad,” he lies through his teeth. ‘Mad’ would be the understatement of the century, right after ‘sucks’. “ _Are you mad at me?_ Ugh, you sound like a kid.”

Tony gets a look on his face, the kind that obviously means he’s about to make Quentin’s life more of a living hell than it already is. Great. “Speaking of kid, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He sticks his fingers into his mouth, whistling loud and sharp over the ambient sounds of the party.

Like an obedient dog, a head of brown curls shoots up in the middle of the sea of people, searching for the source of the whistle with wide eyes. Quentin gets why ‘kid’ reminded Tony of this... kid. He’s all enthusiasm in his over-sized sweater and khakis, betraying just how out of place he is in the middle of all these disillusioned adults.

The boy comes running over, clumsily weaving through crowds of people— stopping to apologize to every _single_ one of them— before skidding to a stop right next to Tony. His face is bright with barely contained excitement, and it makes Quentin want to roll his eyes again. Just another person desperately trying to make Tony Stark happy. 

“Yes, Mr. Stark?” The kid looks at him like he’s waiting for a command, his brown eyes wide.

Tony doesn’t stop looking at Quentin, though, like he’s challenging him. What exactly the challenge is, isn’t exactly clear. “Peter, I want you to meet Quentin Beck— he’s the head honcho of our R&D department.”

The kid— Peter— perks up at the mention of the R&D department. He extends a hand, which Quentin begrudgingly takes in his own. It’s as small as the rest of him, which makes him wonder about where Tony found this kid. Maybe he could try to sue him for violating child labor laws. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Beck,” the kid chirps, giving him a blindingly bright smile. Quentin resists the urge to squint. “You’re so lucky, working here— Tony’s inventions are so cool! B.A.R.F. is one of the craziest things I’ve ever seen, and you get to mess with it whenever you want. I’d give anything to find out how it works. Like, how do the simulations run so smoothly? Is it based off of reference or—“

“Peter,” Tony interrupts, a scolding tone in his voice. 

Peter’s jaw snaps shut almost immediately, and he flushes a pretty shade of red. “Oh, sorry,” he murmurs, tucking a stray curl behind his ear and lowering his gaze to the floor. 

Quentin raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. That’s absolutely _fascinating_. He decides that it’s time for him to play nice, at least until he can figure out who Peter is and why Tony’s brought him here. 

“It’s fine,” he says to Tony, before turning his full attention to the kid, giving him an equally blinding smile when he lifts his head again. “It’s a good thing, Pete, being curious— helps make the world more interesting.”

It’s barely even praise, barely even a compliment, but Peter lifts his face up and absolutely beams. _Cute._

“Peter’s my intern,” Tony explains, breaking their little moment, a smirk on his face. “He’s a prodigy of sorts. A protégé, as they say in France.”

Peter directs his attention back to Tony, nodding his head with so much enthusiasm that he must feel dizzy. “It’s such an honor, Mr. Stark, really— you’re like, one of the most awesome guys in the tech industry right now. I really think B.A.R.F. will help a lot of people with their emotional issues and stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah— come on Parker, keep it in your pants.”

So that’s what this is about. Tony’s just flaunting another one of his creations, another one of his admirers— while simultaneously getting to rub salt in Quentin’s wound. Had he gotten credit for his invention, maybe Peter would’ve been all over him and not Tony, looking at him with hearts and stars in his eyes, like Quentin’s his reason for existing.

As it stands now, though, all that idol-worship seems to be misdirected at Tony, though Peter did seem to be impressed by Quentin’s involvement in the R&D department. It’s a slight acknowledgment, but it’s not enough, considering the fact that Peter immediately followed it up by praising B.A.R.F. like it was _Tony’s_ idea. Most of the time, when he gets overshadowed by his megalomaniac boss, he feels annoyed— angry, maybe, if it’s something personal. Right now, though, all he feels is pure, unbridled _envy_.

All he can think about is how, in another universe, Peter would be worshipping the ground that _he_ walks on, not Tony. Giving him all of his undivided attention like every word out of his mouth is something to be treasured, like he’s the second fucking coming. Those stupid little puppy-dog eyes shining bright with adoration.

He can’t have that, though, so there’s no point in dwelling on it. Best to get some distance from both of them, then.

“Well,” he starts, flicking his eyes between the two of them. “I would love to stay and chat, but I should probably say hello to other people.”

He doesn’t miss the way Peter’s face drops, his wispy eyebrows drawing together in what might be disappointment. “Oh, okay. We’ll leave you alone then,” he says, doing a piss-poor job of concealing his sadness.

Tony must notice too, because he puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, clenching it with what seems like an unnecessarily strong grip. “Hey, hey, there’s no ‘we’. Why don’t you go around the lab with Quentin? Get to know some of the friendly faces, see some lab equipment.” He glances at Quentin, almost as if he’s challenging him to say something. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

Quentin’s ready to tell him to go fuck himself, to walk out of the goddamn building and never look back, but he stops. Thinks for a second. Tony is practically handing him Peter on a silver platter— Peter, who apparently is his newest, shiniest toy. Maybe he’s not his life’s work, but it’s damn near close. He might think that he’s just rubbing it in Quentin’s face, showing him the kind of attention that he doesn’t have, but he’d be wrong. He’s just given him the perfect opportunity for revenge.

For one of the smartest men in the world, Tony Stark is pretty fucking stupid.

“Sure,” Quentin says with a grin, not so subtly wrenching Peter out from under Tony’s grip, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll show Peter the ropes, if he wants.”

Peter blinks up at him through his lashes, before nodding his head again. “Yeah, totally— I mean, definitely!”

Someone from across the room calls Tony’s name. Perfect timing.

“Please, feel free to talk about me while I’m gone,” Tony says, giving Quentin another smug grin, probably expecting him to start badmouthing him the moment he turns his back. All attention is good attention, apparently, as long as everyone’s talking about Tony Stark. He slips back into the crowd of people, no doubt going to harass someone else, leaving the two of them alone.

To be fair, Quentin _was_ waiting for him to turn his back, but not to talk shit— that’s barely satisfying. 

He tightens his arm around Peter’s shoulders, relishing in the way he stumbles slightly into his side. “I’m feeling kind of thirsty,” he says, directing them towards the bar. “Let’s get something to drink.”

They talk a bit about his internship while they wait for the other people in the line to finish their orders. He does his best to sound interested, dropping little compliments here and there, little facts about his own job when it’s appropriate. Peter’s the one telling the story, but every time Quentin speaks, it’s like he’s hanging off his every word, nodding and gasping at every little tidbit of information he feeds him.

It’s a lot easier than he expected, trying to convince Peter to have a drink. 

When he orders two rum and cokes, Peter quickly waves his hands, his face tight with concern. “That’s nice of you, Mr. Beck, but Mr. Stark told me not to drink. He wouldn’t like it if I— if I didn’t do what he said.” He looks aside, before looking back at Quentin. “I’m sixteen— not twenty-one— so I can’t really drink anything anyway.”

Quentin still hands him the glass. “C’mon Pete,” he insists, noting the flush in Peter’s cheeks at the nickname. It’s so easy to get him to blush, to embarrass him— it’s almost criminal. “You’re basically an adult now, you can make your own decisions. Besides, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Apparently, Peter’s easily susceptible to peer pressure. He glances around to make sure no one’s watching, before downing his glass in one single gulp, his throat straining with the effort. “Blegh,” he says, scrunching up his nose at the taste, sticking out his pink tongue. Quentin’s overcome with the urge to shove his fingers inside, past his thin lips and into the wet heat of his mouth. Later, maybe.

“Good job,” he hums, sipping his own drink. “You’re a natural.” Peter seems surprised by the praise, but gives him a wobbly smile in return. If Quentin didn’t know any better, he’d say that the kid was already well on his way to being drunk.

After the first drink, it’s easier to convince Peter to have another. And another. And another.

He’s always hesitant after finishing his glass, but a well-placed bit of praise has him snatching up another and downing it faster than the last. He’ll do anything for a compliment, to prove himself, to get that _validation_. He’s starved for attention in a way that reminds Quentin of Tony. Peter’s more pliant, though, soft and obedient— something that makes him devastatingly attractive, even if he’s completely unaware of it himself. 

That’s another thing about him— he’s completely oblivious, in a way that Quentin might even misconstrue as innocence. He doesn’t see anything wrong with the fact that Quentin’s doing his damndest to get him drunk, just chattering on about his internship, even though other people are starting to give them strange looks. 

“It sucks, y’know,” he says, his words melting together until they’re almost incoherent. “S’just like, Mr. Stark, he keeps— keeps treating me like I’m a stupid kid. M’not a kid, I’m almost an _adult._ ”

Quentin wants to laugh. Peter’s drunk at an office party, barely able to hold his liquor— barely able to _hold himself up_ — and yet he thinks he’s an adult. He’s the picture of immaturity, pulling his straw out of his drink and mindlessly chewing on it, eyebrows furrowed in childish frustration. He even spills some of his drink on the collar of his sweater, and all he does is huff.

“You seem pretty grown-up to me. Tony doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Peter seems to tense up even more when _Quentin_ mentions Tony, so instead of following that train of thought any further, he pushes another drink into his hand, swapping it out for the almost empty glass.

“To being grown-up,” he says, clinking his glass against Peter’s. He doesn’t seem to notice that Quentin’s been nursing the same rum and coke for the past half-hour. How could he, when he’s so busy swallowing down his own drink, trying to prove he’s an adult?

They sit down after Peter’s fifth rum and coke, and Quentin makes a point to place his hand on Peter’s waist, drawing him closer. Peter doesn’t even say anything, just completely leans into him, nuzzling at the fabric of his turtleneck. “Mr. Beck,” Peter slurs, his breath hot and wet against his neck, smelling distinctly of sticky-sweet cola. “You’re so nice. You’re— you’re so cool. Like, you’re the coolest guy I’ve met today. And I’ve met a _lot_ of guys.”

It’s not exactly the kind of adoration Quentin was hoping for, but he’ll take what he can get. “Pete, honey, you’re just really drunk.”

Peter shakes his head, pressing closer against his skin, his hands making fists in the front of his shirt. “M’not— it’s true! You’re nice and cool and smart. You don’t treat me like a kid. You _listen_ to me...” He muffles the rest of his words against Quentin’s neck.

Quentin places his hands on Peter’s shoulders, tugging him away to inspect his face. Peter’s flushed all over now, from the apples of his cheeks down to his neck. His eyes are glazed over, but just as shiny as before. He looks so pretty and sweet, good enough to eat— Quentin’s going to fucking _devour_ him. “What was that, honey?”

“I said— I said I like it when you call me that, um,” Peter murmurs, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “It’s so dumb, I don’t know.”

“What, ‘Pete’?”

Peter gets even redder than before, something which Quentin wouldn’t have thought possible. He licks his lips, before flicking his eyes down to Quentin’s mouth. “No, the— the other thing.”

Oh, he’s absolutely going to fuck this kid’s brains out. 

“You like it when I call you ‘honey’?”

Peter whines, a sweet little sound, before trying to bury his face back in Quentin’s neck. He doesn’t let him, though, holding him at arm’s length as he tries to squirm closer. “Mr. Beck,” he pleads, attempting to wiggle his shoulders out from under his hands. He really is a brat, trying his best to behave and absolutely failing. 

Realistically, he shouldn’t be so into Peter’s pathetic little noises, his slurred words, his constant squirming. As it happens, though, he’s starting to feel more than a little turned-on by the absolute mess of a boy in front of him. If he doesn’t do something soon, he’s going to end up with a Pavlovian boner every time he smells cola. 

It’s time to get this metaphorical show on the metaphorical road.

“Pete— honey,” he says gently, doing his best to act concerned. “I think someone should take you home now.”

Peter shakes his head, his curls coming loose from his gelled-down hair. “I’m fine! Don’t wanna go— wanna stay here talking to you.”

“No offense, but you’re kind of a mess right now. Besides, I think I’m gonna head out soon too, kiddo.”

The naked despair in Peter’s eyes is just delicious. Apparently, he’s not as enthusiastic about spending the night as Tony Stark’s lapdog, not when he could be getting Quentin’s attention instead. He fists a hand in the material of Quentin’s turtleneck, blinking his lashes at him. “Gimme a ride home then, please— _pretty_ please.”

He hums like he’s contemplating it, before shaking his head. “I don’t know, Tony probably wouldn’t like it if I took you without his permission.”

It’s not like he’s serious— obviously he doesn’t give two fucks about what Tony would think. In fact, it’s even better if he _does_ forbid Peter from going with him. It’d be a brutal blow to his ego because as far as Quentin can tell, he’s got Peter wrapped around his little finger. Tony’s been neglecting his protégé, clearly.

Peter seems to have an epiphany, then, his face lighting up before he stumbles to his feet, tugging Quentin along with him. “Let’s go ask him, then!”

Quentin gives him a put-upon sigh as they weave through the crowd, Peter carelessly knocking into the other partygoers. “Peter—“

“Come on,” he insists, his grip still firm around Quentin’s wrist.

Tony stands out in the crowd of people, as always. His voice is the loudest, his suit is the flashiest, and honestly— Quentin hates admitting this— he’s just got a magnetic pull to him that keeps a rotation of people gravitating around him. Anyone in their right mind would be at least somewhat intimidated by the crowd swarming him, but Peter just nudges past them, mumbling apologies. No one can resist his puppy-dog eyes, though, since they make it through the crowd relatively easily.

“ _WIRED_ said I was ‘the Max Born of this generation’ which is absolute bull, since I’m obviously more of a Werner Heisenberg. And no, that’s not a _Breaking Bad_ reference—“

Tony’s not talking about anything important, but the face he makes when Peter skids to a stop in front of him makes it seem like he’d been in the middle of some sort of groundbreaking speech. For someone so enamored with his protégé, he really doesn’t seem to have any patience for his antics.

“Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark, hi, sorry, m’kinda bored now so m’gonna go home. But don’t worry, Mr. Beck is— Mr. Beck’s taking me.”

That’s not going to fly, apparently, since Tony wrenches Peter’s hand off of Quentin’s wrist and drags him aside. Can’t have his admirers seeing him berate his intern. Quentin trails behind them, only partially amused.

“Jesus Christ, Peter, you’re a _mess_. Didn’t I tell you not to drink anything?”

“Yeah, but—“

Tony holds up a hand, effectively silencing Peter. His mouth remains curled in a petulant frown, but he holds his tongue.

“No, no ‘buts’! For fuck’s sake Peter, stop trying to pretend you’re an adult— you’re just a kid. And a pretty immature one at that.”

There’s some unspoken tension there, something that Quentin isn’t exactly in the loop about. It’s obvious that things aren’t as perfect as they seem between the two of them, though. Given the way Tony’s scolding Peter over his ‘immaturity’, there’s probably a shit-ton of layers behind this argument that he doesn’t know about. Honestly, he doesn’t really care, either— he’s just trying to fuck the kid before Tony does.

“M’not a kid! Stop— stop saying that!”

“Yes, you are. Just look at yourself. I leave you alone for an hour— a fucking _hour_ — and you’re already wasted. What has gotten into you?”

Peter wrenches his wrist out of Tony’s grasp, stumbling back into Quentin’s chest. He clutches at his arm, steadying himself. “M’not going with you! I don’t wanna go with you! Mr. Beck is taking me home!”

If Tony was angry before, he’s fuming now. “Oh yeah? Since when are you two so buddy-buddy, huh?”

“Since you ditched me at the party you made me come to!” Peter shouts, garnering a smattering of odd looks from the other party guests. If he notices, it doesn’t deter him. “You never _listen_ to me, you don’t care about me! You just want to show me off like I’m some fancy new tech that you’ll get bored of in a few months.”

_Yikes._

That seems to strike a chord with Tony. His face immediately falls, and Quentin feels bummed out too, mostly because he can’t take a picture and frame it on his wall. “Pete,” he starts, uncharacteristically soft, “is that really what you think?”

Peter’s fighting back tears, clinging even tighter to Quentin’s sleeve. “Whatever. You don’t have to act like you care.”

He pushes past the onlookers, stumbling his way over to the elevator. Quentin follows after him, obviously, but not before flashing Tony a grin. 

Peter doesn’t say anything on the way to the parking garage. The silence is a huge contrast from all of the commotion from the party, but it’s nice, not having to listen to Peter ramble on and on about god knows what.

He breaks his silence when they get into the car.

“I’m sorry,” Peter murmurs, his head tilted down, clearly embarrassed. “You probably think m’just a stupid kid too.”

Quentin does, but it’s not like he’d tell Peter that to his face. “Whoa, no. I don’t think that at all.”

He shakes his head. “He’s right, though. I’m just— god, m’such a mess right now. I shouldn’t have drunk so much stuff. My aunt’s gonna be like, so pissed. She’s already not into the whole Tony Stark thing... Shit.”

“Come back to mine, then,” Quentin offers. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.

Peter’s caught off guard by that, considering the way he looks up at him, eyes wide in surprise. “Mr. Beck, that’s so nice of you, jeez.” He hesitates. “But I should really go home.”

It’s not exactly nice, considering the implication, but whatever floats Peter’s boat. “I can drive you home tomorrow morning, when you’re sober,” he says, nudging Peter with his shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Uh, okay. If you’re totally sure.” Peter gives him a sweet smile, only looking slightly green around the gills. “Sleepover. Fun.”

Quentin gives him a wink as he starts the car. _Fun._ He has no idea.

—

As soon as they step through the threshold of his apartment, Quentin’s pushing Peter up against the wall. He’s played the role of patient, caring adult, doting on Peter and listening to him ramble on and fucking _on_ about his insecurities. He gave him all the attention he so desperately wanted— that his precious Tony Stark wouldn’t give him— it’s only fair that he gets something in return.

“Mr. Beck?” Peter gasps as his back hits the wall, so obviously confused by the turn of events. It’s like he didn’t realize that Quentin spending the whole night with a possessive hand clenched around his slim waist could mean anything more than a benign friendliness. Knowing how goddamn oblivious the kid is, he probably didn’t realize his intentions at all— not even when Quentin offered to take him back to _his_ apartment for the night. 

He’s understanding it now, though, caged between Quentin and the wall.

He’s much larger than Peter— he noticed, having the kid practically attached to his hip the whole night. He could easily overpower him, and if push comes to shove, he will.

Peter’s still tipsy, but the realization that he’s in _danger_ seems to pull him out of his alcohol-induced haze. Good. It wouldn’t be any fun if Peter wasn’t giving him his full attention.

Quentin leans in, scratching his beard against the soft skin of Peter’s neck, savoring his involuntary shudder and his shaky exhale. Heat is coming off of him in waves, there’s sweat beading along the line of his throat, and his pulse is beating so hard that Quentin thinks he can actually hear it. “What’s the matter, honey?”

The same nickname that Peter had been so flustered over now makes him tense up. Quentin places his hands back around his waist, giving a squeeze before slipping them down towards his hips. He’s surprisingly strong underneath his dorky little clothes, all toned and tight. Peter could probably give him a good shove and sprint right out of his apartment, but for some reason, he doesn’t. 

“I don’t— I don’t know what’s happening, right now, um.”

“What do you think?”

Quentin pulls back to look at Peter’s face, his fingers slipping under the hem of his argyle sweater, running over the smooth skin underneath. He gives the kid another grin, flashing his canines in what he knows is a killer smile. 

Peter just flushes, lowering his eyes, the picture of innocence. Something to be treasured, cared for, and absolutely _ruined._ “Are you trying to have sex... with me?”

It’s almost impossible for Quentin to not laugh at that. He’s not trying to ‘have sex’ with Peter, he’s _going to_. Hell, he’s going to ride him until he’s doesn’t know what’s up or down— until he doesn’t know anything but salt and skin and the feeling of Quentin’s body around him.

He’s going to wreck the kid, no doubt about it. It’ll be a shame, fucking the Stark-Industries-internship-worthy brains out of him— but then again, he’ll be much more useful to Quentin than he could ever be to Tony.

“Yeah, Pete,” he hums, low and secret, “I’m trying to have sex with you.” He slips his hands under the hem of Peter’s sweater, thumbing at the jut of his hips, running his palms over his stomach. His skin is just as angel-soft as he is, creamy and unblemished like it was made to be marred by teeth marks and bruises.

Peter looks like he’s torn between crying and pitching forward into Quentin’s chest. “I’ve never done anything like that before,” he says, one hand coming to grab Quentin’s when he gets dangerously close to his nipple. He doesn’t move it away, just clutches it between his fingers, presses it into the grooves of his ribs. “I don’t know if I should.”

Quentin expected some kind of response like that, so he’s already got his trump card at the ready. He schools his expression into something verging on pity. “Oh, baby, it’s okay. I can take you home if you want. I guess I just keep forgetting how _young_ you are.” It’s syrupy-sweet and quite obviously bait, but Peter falls for it, hook, line, and sinker.

“M’not a baby,” Peter snaps, slightly slurring his words. He looks torn for a moment, weighing his options, before placing his hands on Quentin’s shoulders and squeezing. “I don’t wanna go home... I can handle it, I guess, uh. If you want to do that stuff, with me.”

“I _do,_ ” Quentin grunts, punctuating the statement with a calculated cant of his hips, right against the slight bulge in Peter’s pants. He doesn’t expect Peter to be so sensitive, and yet the single motion has him keening, going lax against the wall, pliant and soft like putty in his hands.

If they’re going to get anywhere tonight, Quentin’s going to have to move this to the bedroom, and fast. He wouldn’t be surprised if Peter’s got a hair-trigger, inexperienced as he apparently is. Regardless of his situation, Quentin plans on taking full advantage of whatever it is he’s packing in those sexless khakis of his.

“Mr. Beck,” Peter gasps as he arches forward, angling for a kiss, but Quentin turns his head just in time for his lips to graze his beard instead. 

It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to kiss Peter, it’s just that he thinks he needs to work for it, at least a little bit— as a reminder that Quentin’s the one who’s in charge here. He draws one hand out from under Peter’s sweater, pressing his thumb against his lower lip, tracing along the seam of his mouth. “Are you going to be good for me, honey?”

Peter nods, the motion frantic. “I’ll be good, Mr. Beck, I promise, I _swear_ , please— _mmph_!”

He muffles the kid’s rambling with a well-placed thrust of his thumb, right into his mouth. It’s not too far into him, not as far as he wants to go, but Peter’s eyes still water. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

That gets a strangled sound out of him, loud even around Quentin’s thumb. His tongue is silk-soft against the pad of his finger, and he resists the urge to slip another into his mouth— resists the urge to make him choke and gag and _retch_. It’s not like it would be hard, considering how much he’s had to drink, but he holds back, at least for now.

Quentin slips his thumb out from inside him, running it over his lips again and smearing saliva along his mouth, leaving it shiny and pink. “Or you could fuck me, instead,” he murmurs, savoring the way Peter’s eyes widen, scandalized.

“You’d let me— you’d really let me do that?”

“I’m offering, aren’t I?”

Peter looks like he’s well on his way to being conflicted again, so Quentin snatches his hands and presses them against the curve of his ass. It’s barely sexy, just over the clothes, but it has the kid groaning and bucking his hips again. “Oh god, _Mr. Beck_.”

“Do you want that?”

“Yes, yes, definitely,” he says breathlessly, tightening his grasp. “ _God,_ I wanna fuck you, like, so bad.”

Hauling the kid to the bedroom is a struggle, but Quentin manages to keep him from drunkenly stumbling into anything valuable and breaking it. Peter at least has the decency to be embarrassed when he trips out of Quentin’s arms and into his hallway wall, still uncoordinated from all of the rum and cokes he’d pounded at the party. He’s sloppy, clumsy, but most importantly, vulnerable. Easy to push around.

It feels like it takes them an hour to get into the bedroom, and when they finally do, Quentin gives Peter a hard shove, knocking him over and onto the bed. He kneels over him, straddling Peter’s sprawled thighs. “Let’s see what you’re hiding under these stupid khakis, hm?” 

The kid’s a bit modest, flushing under Quentin’s gaze, despite the way he was practically gagging for it in the hallway. “Oh, uh, okay,” he mumbles, shimmying his pants down to his knees, doing his best to not jostle Quentin, despite how ungainly he seems to be. Peter’s not particularly large, given that he’s just sixteen, but he’s larger than Quentin would’ve expected him to be. He hums appreciatively at the outline of his cock, visible through the thin material of his boxers, reaching down to give it a cursory squeeze.

“Mr. Beck,” Peter gasps, his hips stuttering against his hand. “I can’t— I can’t hold it if you touch me like that.”

Quentin tugs Peter’s boxers down his thighs, his dick smacking against his pelvis, just as flushed as his face. “But I want to keep touching you, Pete,” he drawls, wrapping a loose, dry fist around Peter’s cock and giving it a pump.

Peter whines, writhing against the pillows. His mouth is saying one thing, but his body’s saying something else, his hips slowly fucking into Quentin’s grasp. “What about— I thought you wanted me to— _ah!_ ”

Quentin squeezes, hard— taking advantage of the precum dribbling from Peter’s slit and using it to increase the glide of his hand. “Then I guess you’ll just have to get it up for me again, sweetheart,” he purrs, pumping his hand faster and leaning down to press a kiss against Peter’s lips. They’re clamped shut, maybe in an attempt to stifle all of those embarrassing noises, but a twist of his wrist has Peter keening into his mouth. It’s a hot rush of air, sweet like cola and bitter like rum, and it might be the best thing Quentin’s ever tasted. It’s only natural that he slide his tongue inside, since Peter’s given him such a nice invitation, offering up that tantalizing wet heat like it’s nothing.

Peter pulls away then— Quentin assumes it’s just so he can catch his breath, but he’s wrong. Peter pulls away so he can beg, sweet and desperate. “Please, please, faster, Mr. Beck, I need to— fuck— _Mr. Beck!_ ”

He’s so sensitive, so easy to pull apart. One lick into his mouth has him shuddering, tilting his head back and opening even wider. One twist of Quentin’s wrist, the light scrape of his fingernail along his shaft, and Peter’s _gone_ , spilling over Quentin’s fist, his hips rolling as he rides out his orgasm. “Oh _god_ ,” he gasps when they pull apart, his mouth a slick pink against the red of his cheeks.

Quentin smears most of Peter’s cum along his dorky sweater, wiping his hand clean. It’s almost possessive, though, a mark of sorts— evidence of their little escapade long after it ends. And as for the rest, he runs his tongue over his knuckles, sucking at the salty skin turned bitter from Peter’s orgasm. It’s not the worst he’s tasted.

Peter stares up at him, his cheeks red and his eyes glazed over— equal parts drunken stupor and post-orgasm euphoria. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he breathes, his hazy brown eyes following Quentin’s tongue. “You’re just so... so _hot_.”

“Mhm...” Quentin leans back to tug off his own pants, swatting at Peter’s hands when he tries to help. Given how drunk he is, he’ll only end up tangled in his belt or wrapped in his pantlegs. Those nice, petite hands, completely useless. Which, now that he’s thinking about it, doesn’t sound so bad. Something for next time, if there’s a next time. “So I’ve been told.”

He manages to tug his underwear down his legs without tumbling off his own bed, thank god. It’d be embarrassing, being as graceless as a drunk teenager. Quentin’s not as hard as him, at least. That’d be _really_ embarrassing, wouldn’t it?

If Peter seemed like he was having an epiphany with Quentin’s ass under his hands, then he’s completely enraptured by seeing his dick. He reaches for it— again with those _stupid_ grabby hands. What a fucking brat. Quentin snatches Peter’s hand, cradling it in his own. “You want to touch me, honey?”

“Can I? Please, Mr. Beck, I wanna make you feel good,” Peter rambles, his hand flexing in Quentin’s grip, muscles straining over bone. “Let me touch you, _please_.”

He’s a brat, sure, but he knows how to beg. “Okay, fine.”

The expression on Peter’s face is nothing short of elated, his free hand coming to rest on Quentin’s bare thigh. “What do you want me to— _mmm!_ ” 

His mouth looks even nicer when it’s stretched around his own fingers, Quentin’s hand forcing them deep into his throat. He makes a confused gurgling sound, his wide eyes already watering again.

“Suck,” Quentin commands, tightening his grip on Peter’s wrist. He hesitates, his brown eyes looking down at his mouth, and back up at Quentin’s face. So, he’ll suck on a stranger’s fingers, no questions asked, but he doesn’t want to suck on his own. “Be a good boy, Peter.”

There are probably few other phrases as effective as that— nothing that could’ve gotten the kid to gag on his own notably short fingers other than the tantalizing promise of praise. Peter hollows his cheeks around his own fingers, flushing at the obscene sounds his tongue makes as he runs it over the intrusion inside his mouth. If he knew how slutty he looks right now, he’d probably be infinitely more embarrassed. 

“That’s it,” Quentin encourages, his voice barely above a whisper, husky. Peter’s half-lidded eyes are focused on Quentin’s dick, hard against the hem of his turtleneck. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t somewhat entranced by the way Peter’s throat strains, turned on by the way he’s drooling down his own chin. “Get them nice and wet for me, honey. God, you’re making such a mess of yourself. Wish you could see how hot you look, gagging on your own fingers.”

Peter sobs, tears running down his temples and soaking into his sweaty curls. His free hand curls against Quentin’s thigh, his blunt fingernails digging into skin, but he doesn’t resist. 

As much as he loves watching Peter cry around his own fingers, he does plan on getting fucked tonight, so he slides Peter’s hand out of his mouth with a wet _pop._ There’s something extremely lewd about how messy his mouth is, how much drool he’s managed to _not_ get on his fingers and instead smear all around his mouth and chin. So sloppy. What he’s lacking in experience, he makes up for enthusiasm, that’s for fucking sure.

“What do I do now?” Peter rasps, his spit-covered hand dripping onto his sweater.

Quentin guides Peter’s hand to rest against the curve of his ass, the skin-to-skin contact infinitely more sexual than through clothes. Peter’s hand is warm as he clings to Quentin, still wet from his mouth— tentative, inexperienced. “You ever fuck a girl, Pete?”

Peter shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, I’ve never— I’ve kissed a girl before, but, um. Nothing else.”

The little dork’s a _virgin_. Quentin resists the urge to grin. He’d expected as much, but getting confirmation that he’s Peter’s first, ever— it makes his dick twitch. “Lucky me,” he murmurs, teasing. 

It’s not rocket science, obviously, but Peter still seems lost, his fingers barely even grazing the cleft of his ass. “So should I just, kinda, stick them in or...?”

He really didn’t expect to be holding his hand every little step of the way, both figuratively and literally. Quentin would be better off stretching himself open, with his own hand— but that’s what he gets for fucking a drunk teenager. He tugs on Peter’s hand with an unnecessary amount of force, gripping it tight as he angles the kid’s fingers. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Peter exhales shakily, his finger flexing as he slips it deeper into Quentin. The stretch isn’t particularly intense, but the lack of real lubricant adds to the friction. “You’re so tight— will I even fit?”

Without warning, Peter shoves a second finger inside of him. It _stings_ , sharp and sudden, and Quentin forces himself to bite back a moan. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he groans, rocking his hips against Peter’s hand, trying to get him to sink in deeper. 

Despite the fact that Peter’s dick is already hard again, he takes his sweet time fingering Quentin open. He doesn’t seem to have any goal in mind, just feeling it out, his fingertips pushing and prodding— a look of awe on his stupid little face as he watches Quentin try to fuck himself on his fingers. It’s way too intimate, too close to being romantic. Peter’s hands are practically reverent in their own clumsy way.

“Stop— fuck,” Quentin grunts, pulling Peter’s hand away, his fingers sliding out of him with a squelch that makes Peter’s face flush an even deeper shade of red. 

“What? Did I do something wrong? Oh god, I’m really sorry, I don’t know what I’m supposed to—“

Quentin shifts his hips forward, angling Peter’s dick against his hole and sinking down, despite definitely not being prepped enough. “You— ah— you talk too much,” he hisses, “anyone ever tell you that?”

There’s no response from Peter, his mouth stuck somewhere between a gasp and a moan, tongue dangerously close to lolling out of his mouth and drooling all over his chin. It’s a considerably tighter squeeze than the two fingers— but the stretch hurts so _good_. Quentin loves that, loves the feeling of his body opening up to accommodate Peter’s dick, the pain of it all. Loves being carved open.

From the look on Peter’s face, he must love it too. He’s teary-eyed again, hands fisting in the bedsheets, cheeks splotchy like he’s been slapped. “ _Ah,_ Mr. Beck, it’s too much,” he whines, probably still sensitive from his last orgasm. Quentin brackets Peter’s head with his elbows, leaning forward to push back against his dick. Every time he lifts up and sinks down, Peter mewls, lewd little sounds— almost like _he’s_ the one being fucked. Every now and then he spouts some random, rambling observation: _you’re so hot, I can’t believe I’m inside you, you’re so tight_.

Quentin’s trying his best to focus, trying to angle Peter’s dick just right so he can finally get a proper fuck out of the stupid brat. Every time he grazes his prostate— every time he so much as speeds up or clenches down— Peter makes another annoying little sound, shifting his hips and throwing him off of his rhythm. Quentin doesn’t mean to slap him, and definitely not hard enough that the kid sobs, equal parts surprised and scared. His hand is hot when he pulls it away, stinging all on its own. “Peter,” he snaps, low and deadly, “be a good boy— stay still and be _quiet_.”

Peter nods his head frantically, mussing up his curls, his hands coming up to fist themselves in his sticky sweater. His teeth sink hard into his bottom lip as he unsuccessfully tries to hold back tears. Even when Quentin starts fucking himself faster and harder on his dick, he does his best to keep his hips still, breathing heavily through his nose.

“That’s it, baby,” Quentin purrs with a roll of his hips, easily slipping back into the sickly sweet façade. “I knew you could be a good boy for me, Pete. _My_ good boy, all mine.” 

Peter can bitch all he wants about how he hates being babied, how he hates being scolded like a kid, but based on the way he squeezes his eyes shut, tears streaming down his cheeks— Quentin might argue that he fucking _loves_ it. Maybe he loves the humiliation of being proven wrong, or maybe he’s just a little slut at heart. Either way.

Quentin’s so fucking close to coming, sweating in his turtleneck from all the exertion, hot in more ways than one. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s moving until Peter reaches out, putting a hand on his thigh. “Please— m’sorry— _hurts_ ,” he gasps, his hands scrabbling for Quentin’s hips to try and slow him down. “Mr. Beck!”

So _annoying_. He wraps a hand around Peter’s throat, watching those pretty brown eyes widen with fear. “I thought I told you to _be quiet_.” He squeezes, hard, cutting off Peter’s shaky breaths and eliciting a choked moan. 

His hands scrabble uselessly against Quentin’s vice-like grip, uncoordinated and desperate like a frightened animal. It should make him let up, at least a little, but if anything, it just makes him squeeze harder. He’s undoubtedly leaving crescent-shaped marks where his nails dig into the soft skin of Peter’s neck. Good. He wants to leave a mark, wants him to feel the ghost of his hand long after the night ends.

The kid’s crying and struggling, his thrashing mimicking thrusts— Quentin can’t believe it took being near-strangled to death for him to get the memo. One particularly well-timed jerk of his hips has Quentin seeing stars, moaning as he fucks himself on Peter’s dick. He leans down to his ear, biting at it before murmuring, “What’s the matter, baby? I thought you wanted to be good for me?” 

It’s almost like he’s flipped a switch. Peter stops clawing at Quentin’s hand, settling instead for a loose grasp around his wrist, holding his grip in place, despite the way he’s wheezing. The poor kid just wants to be good— wants to prove that he’s useful, worth keeping around despite all the trouble he causes. His mouth opens in a cut-off moan, an incredibly enticing o-shape, and Quentin can’t help but kiss his slack lips. 

It’s slick and messy, saliva everywhere, and as he pulls away, he spits into the kid’s open mouth— his cola-sweet spit so saccharine that it’s nauseating. Peter gurgles, his throat flexing under Quentin’s palms. His eyes are ridiculously dilated, black swallowing brown. 

“Come on, baby, come for me,” he grunts. Peter’s eyes roll back in his head as he tightens his hold on his wrist, and then he’s coming inside Quentin— hot and wet, his dick pulsating as he orgasms for the second time in an hour. God fucking bless that teenage stamina.

Quentin doesn’t know how long he’s had his hand on Peter’s slim throat. Maybe a few seconds, maybe a few hours. The kid’s starting to turn a dangerous shade of purple, though.

A sick part of him thinks about how fucking good it would be, if he just didn’t let go. How easy it would be to keep _squeezing_ , so he’d be Peter’s first and _last_.

That thought hits him harder than he expected, his own orgasm tearing a groan from his throat as he splatters cum all along Peter’s baby-soft sweater, on his own black turtleneck. He doesn’t know when he lets go of the kid’s throat, just hears him gasp, feels Peter tug him close to his chest with his scrawny arms.

“Thank you,” he sobs, voice rough and cracking, “thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

Quentin doesn’t know if Peter’s thanking him for the sex, or thanking him for not strangling the life out of him. 

He doesn’t care enough to ask, rolling off of the kid and onto his back. “Fuck,” he pants, running a hand through his sweaty hair, “I need a drink.” If it weren’t for the cum leaking out from between his thighs, he’d get up and make one.

Peter turns to him, leaning up on shaky arms. Quentin’s honestly surprised that he has enough energy left in him to move. “Drink? Do you— do you want me to get you one?”

Quentin looks over at the kid, squinting. He’d had every intention of kicking Peter out as soon as they were done, cum on his clothes and all. Just imagining how humiliated he would be, walk-of-shaming it home to his aunt at three in the morning. But the fact that the kid’s still willing to let Quentin push him around after everything is much more enticing.

He stops. Smiles at Peter. “The liquor cabinet’s in the living room.”

Peter nods like he’s been given the most important task in human history. “Um, okay, yeah, living room. Liquor cabinet,” he rasps, stumbling onto his feet, tugging up his cute little boxers. 

Quentin props up his chin with a hand, watching Peter trip over his own feet like a baby deer. Or just a stupid teenager who’s just had the living daylights fucked out of him. “Can you handle that, baby?”

It takes Peter a moment to respond. Quentin notices the shiver that rolls through Peter’s spine when he uses the pet-name. “Yeah, Mr. Beck, I can— I can handle it. Um, what do you want to drink?”

He’s such a pretty little thing— so sweet, so _obedient_ , if you know which buttons to push. Such a good boy, and an even better fuck.

Quentin’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, verging on predatory. “You know what? I think I’ll have a rum and coke.”

**Author's Note:**

> ah i hope u liked it and thank u for reading !!!! i tried my best to make it as evil and as sexy as spencer rightfully deserves !
> 
> here’s my [twitter](http://twitter.com/piagnucolares) ! come say hi and yell about beckpeter w me !!


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